


The Clear Ringing of Trumpets

by Galadriel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Community: lotr_sesa, Dreams, Gen, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: Plagued by a reoccurring dream, Faramir finds himself sharing the night air with his new King.





	The Clear Ringing of Trumpets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, lynndyre! I hope this fits the bill. I tried to hit on a few of your favourite flavours, but especially their bond post-Houses of Healing. I really hope you like it!

_The footfalls of the orcs thundered through the trees. Steel bit into steel, ringing like battered church bells, calling the unholy home. Arrows whistled by his head, high and whining even as they kissed his skin, scratching their bloody warnings of the death that was to come._

_His heart pounding in his chest, he fought his way across the hill. The hobbits were scattered, like leaves in the breeze, lost in the tumult of the attack. If he could not follow Frodo, then he must protect the little ones. He must find them, save them, and carry on._

_He tasted metal in his mouth, his blood rushing through his ears, his whole body on fire as he pushed himself ever more. Orcs and Uruk-hai fell at his sword's kiss, black ichor making the grass beneath his feet treacherous and slippery. Sweat stuck his hair to his skull, his clothes to his back, and his breath gusted hot and visible in the cool air._

_He would fight on, because he must. He would fight as each member of the Fellowship would fight, standing their ground, holding their own, knowing that even in the midst of battle, surrounded by enemies, they were not alone._

_The clear ringing hail of the horn made his blood run cold._

Faramir sat up in bed, chest heaving, his sweat-soaked sheets slowly falling away from his skin. He swore he could still hear the horn's notes in his ears, as if it had been blown just a room away. 

There would be no sleeping now.

Faramir threw off his blankets, and slid out of bed. It was the work of naught but a moment to shrug on some loose clothes and a warm robe, belting it firmly before slipping on shoes and stepping out into the corridor. 

Judging by the silence in the hallways, and the sparseness of lit torches, Faramir was awoken deep in the dregs of the night. Still, he climbed a disused set of stairs, deliberately separating himself from the household, so he could be assured of quiet and privacy while he waited for the dream to fade from his mind.

The balcony afforded him both those things, and the soft caress of the night air too. It would have been comforting, standing on Minas Tirith's stones, taking in the air, if the events that he had seen did not weigh so heavily on his soul. It was not like the dream he had had before discovering his brother's body. It did not possess that prophetic flavour, a strange misty type of film, as if the details were shifting and twisting even as Faramir reached for them, not yet firm and set in the avenues of time. 

No, this dream had begun to plague him only after his release from the Houses of Healing. Each moment of it was sharp and clear, and no matter how many times Faramir experienced it, it never changed. Not one whit. He would have believed it to be made of memories, if it was not for the fact that he was not there to hear Boromir blow his horn.

"Good evening." The voice was soft, and at Faramir's shoulder. He had heard no one approach, and it was only his years upon years of training that kept him still. Turning his head, he was surprised to see his new King standing beside him, as if he had been there all along.

Faramir blinked. "My King," he murmured, inclining his head. "Taking in the night air?"

Elessar's shoulders rose and fell. "I found I could not sleep, so I thought I might explore the Citadel a little more." 

Faramir nodded. "Of course." He gestured out beyond the stone of the balcony. "It may be a little lonely up here, but you can see that it offers some of the better views of the levels below." 

"Indeed." Elessar stepped right up to the edge, looking down at the ringwalls and the empty streets that spiralled out under their feet. For a brief moment, Faramir feared for his King's safety; he could not recall the last time these set of rooms had had their stonework examined and fortified against crumble and decay. 

Faramir reached out to pull Elessar back, but before his hand could connect with Elessar's shoulder, the man had fallen back in line with Faramir. "And what is it that has you walking the halls at night? A dream as well?"

Faramir hesitated, but Elessar's gaze was clear and open, inviting private conversation and the assurity that he would not breathe a word Faramir spoke to another man, woman or child.

"I have always had... dreams. Of places and people I have never seen nor met. Of times before and after now." Faramir wet his lips. Softer, he murmured, "One such dream plagues me now. It reminds me that I am the reason my brother is dead. If I had insisted...If I had gone instead..." He shook his head.

The King's hand was cool against the back of Faramir's own. Silent though he was, the simple touch was calming, and Faramir felt his pulse slow. The flames in his cheeks banked, the heat began to drain from his cheeks. His voice was barely a whisper, rising and twisting on the darkened air. "If you had gone, then _you_ would be dead." A wisp of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "And while I knew him but a space of a breath in comparison to your lifelong bond, I knew him well enough to know that he would have battled his way into the Halls of Mandos simply to bring you back again." 

Faramir smiled, ducking his head. Perhaps this King of Men could see right into the hearts of his subjects. Faramir knew Boromir would have done exactly that, and more. 

For a moment, the thought was comforting, before it became sharp and brittle, sliding between his ribs to slice into his heart. He had wept and grieved, but he had done little else. He had not pushed against the very idea of death. He had not taken up sword and shield to rail against Mandos himself. Perhaps he did not possess the mettle that made him worthy as a man. Perhaps he had failed as a brother. How, then, could he hope to be an adequate Steward to Elessar?

The first few droplets of what was, of late, a neverending flow of tears prickled at Faramir's lashes. Almost as soon as they began to roll down his cheeks, the night air dried them, but a scant moment later, a callused thumb brushed away the remaining wetness. Elessar cradled his cheek, turning Faramir's face to his own. "What is it you dreamed?" 

"Memories," Faramir whispered, "although they are not my own." Before he could stop them, the words began to flow from him like water. The smell of the woods where he had never walked. The feel of a hilt he had never held. And the sound, oh, Eru, the sound of the horn calling for aid that he was never, ever, going to be able to extend.

As he spoke, he watched Elessar's expression, expecting anything from disbelief to acceptance. Instead, he saw surprise and recognition, as if he was recounting a story well-told. 

He did not feel lighter, as it were, once he stoppered his stream of words, but he did feel rather less alone. "I am sorry," he murmured, "I did not intend to burden you any further, not after what you did for me when I was under Ioreth's roof." He hesitated. Exhaustion, the after-effects of emotion, was beginning to make itself known, weighing down his bones. "Perhaps it is time to return to our chambers. Sleep may be ready to revisit us both." 

Elessar nodded. "Certainly." He stepped close to the edge again, seemingly fascinated by the drop. Yet a moment later he was once more at Faramir's side, this time escorting him towards the inner rooms and the stairs beyond. 

They walked in silence, companionably comfortable; a great change from the distress that drove Faramir up the stairs a scant hour ago. At a fork in the hall, he hesitated, lingering at the base of the branch that led to the Steward's chambers, the other leading to the King's own. He had felt it was beyond his reach to inquire into more than his King had offered, but the tickle of curiosity was hard to ignore. Elessar's smile was warm and inviting, and only moments ago they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder, soldiers in arms instead of monarch and servant. 

He wet his lips, letting the pause lengthen just a little too long. 

"I wish you a better night's sleep." Elessar nodded. "Perhaps we can postpone our next midnight meeting for happier circumstance." Turning from Faramir at last, he moved towards his chambers.

"Wait!" Faramir called out after him, his face reddening immediately at his impropriety and impertinence. "What did you say woke you?" He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "What was it that brought you to my balcony?" He smiled a little, hoping a faint whiff of humour would cut through any royal rules he was bending. 

Elessar stopped in his tracks, not turning back around. Silence settled around them, this time an uncomfortably heavy blanket of unspoken thoughts. "I hear it too." 

Faramir had to strain his ears to catch the words, and even then he was unsure of them. "You hear it too?"

"I do." Elessar nodded. "Every night, his horn wakes me too."

It was all Faramir could do not to shudder; instead he closed his eyes against what he knew to be true. They were memories. And they belonged to the man he had just poured his heart out to. 

When he blinked his eyes open again, Elessar was gone, leaving Faramir at loose ends in the darkened hall. He made his way back to his rooms, shucking shoes and robe and clothes as he crawled back beneath his blankets. Sleep had long since stopped being a refuge, but for now, illuminated with the knowledge of another, it might not exert the same level of control. 

As he settled his head back upon the pillow, closing his eyes against the darkness, he reflected upon the evening's interruption. 

There was some comfort in knowing that when he dreamed, he was no longer dreaming alone.


End file.
